


Remembrance

by HisBossBitch (Kithi1), Kithi1



Series: His Elizabeth Boland [2]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Idiots in Love, Insomnia, Love/Hate, Lust, Masturbation in Shower, Memories, Missing Scene, Obsessive Rio (Good Girls), POV Rio (Good Girls), Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnancy Scares, Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithi1/pseuds/HisBossBitch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithi1/pseuds/Kithi1
Summary: So when Beth Boland told Rio that she was pregnant, what did he do? I mean, did he just go home all comfy and what-not? Where's that scene?Also, what happened in Beth's bedroom with Rio; when he "hit it while her husband was at work." 😀 (God! That man is petty! Love to see it.)Like Ruby, I just wanted to know: how was it? was it good?Missing scenes and flashbacks from Rio's POV.
Relationships: Beth Boland & Rio
Series: His Elizabeth Boland [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030728
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissTricey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTricey/gifts).



> This is only my 2nd fanfic and my first attempt at smut. So... Enjoy. I had fun writing it.
> 
> Oh and if you have a comment about what you think about my 'Rio's voice', I'd love to hear it.

“I’m pregnant,” Elizabeth says.

Time catches. Stretches endlessly. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat. Takes a breath… exhales… and somewhere in his chest, he feels it; a tiny mewling thing; a faded memory of something he’s thought he never wanted to feel for her again. Rio looks right at her. But for an instant, it is not her face he sees. Instead, it is her daughter’s; Emma. The little girl who has her mama’s eyes. Inhale….shudder….exhale. 

Time slips. Releases. Rushes on. 

He wants to say something. Like this isn’t over. Like maybe he doesn’t believe her anyway. The words are in his mind. But his mouth feels dry; parched. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. It’s all a bit too much. 'Elizabeth fuckin’ Boland.' When did that become how he thinks of her? Maybe around the time he woke up angry because she shot him and left him dying. He turns away, walks out. 

The cold night air hits him in the face and jolts him back to himself. His step falters. For a second he thinks of going back in there, dragging her out anyway and ending her; him; ending it all. He is just so fuckin’ tired. And he knows she’s playing him for a fool. “Can’t really blame her though,” he scoffs to himself. Not when he’s been acting the fool for her; for far too long, in fact. ‘Should have ended it that first day,’ he thinks. When she stole from him or when she failed to pay it back. You know, when Mick had had the gun to her head and she’d opened her mouth and called him an idiot. He wants to laugh; that night she’d taken the measure of him, alright. Called him an idiot and he’d gone ahead and proved her right every fuckin' time. He curses under his breath.

She is not really pregnant, he just knows it. He’s sure of it. Almost. He’d bet his life on it. This time he laughs. ‘HER life.’ He laughs again. It’s a bitter sound. He’s betting HER life on it. What if she is though? He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, drags his palm over his face. He’s so tired. It’s that tiny ‘what-if’ that’s got him mixed up. Because doesn’t that change everything? Something? Does it change…anything? ...nothing? 

He squeezes his eyes shut; sees Emma again. ‘That’s the whole problem, ain’t it?’ he thinks. ‘The what-if’. He breathes a sigh, pounds his fist once on the roof of his car. “Aight, ma.” If that’s how she wants to play this, that’s how he’ll play it too. “Game on, darling,” he whispers into the night. 

It’s going to be a long night, he knows. He pulls out into traffic.

He’s exhausted like he hasn’t slept in days. He drops heavily onto his bed. Kicking off his clothes, he slips between the too-cold sheets and prays he sleeps. But he already knows it is a futile hope. Sleep has been elusive for a while now; since that Night. He's tired enough that he falls into a fitful doze anyway. He tosses, awakens. The covers feel heavy yet not warm enough. He kicks at them, frustrated; stares into the darkness and tries not to think of her. The loft is cold. He’s freezing. But the cold has been in his bones since the Night she… He growls, turns over, draws his bedspread higher and falls back into a restless sleep. 

He dreams of her. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of her but this dream is different. It’s not one of those in which she’s killing him. She kills him differently every time. But it’s just the same dream in different iterations. Over and over again she does it. Sometimes she shoots him; once…three times…empties a full clip into him…it’s different every time. Sometimes she stabs him with a knife in her kitchen or a letter opener at her desk. Sometimes she throws keys at him and they’re jagged, razor-sharp. They flay his chest; other times they sink deep. Sometimes she attacks him with a blue baseball bat. He thinks it’s Danny’s. It’s made of plastic. She’s killing him with it anyway. There are holes in his chest and he is choking on his blood. He can taste the pennies. Yeah, he knows; he has unresolved issues with her. Go figure. 

Regardless of the weapon she uses, the sound of gunshots rings between them. His gun fires in her hand…bang; she stabs….bang; slashes…bang; swings…bang. Always he sees her; hair wild, mild surprise on her face, mascara washing off in the tears running down her cheeks. And then she leaves. It’s always different. Always the same. She’s killing him. She’s leaving him. He chokes and wakes up gasping.

But it’s not one of those dreams tonight. He dreams of her naked, pressed beneath him. She’s smiling into his eyes. The dream shifts. She’s walking away from him, in that burgundy, polka-dot dress. Her fingers are twined through his. He pulls her hand. She turns, the sun shines in her eyes. She squints, says something. He can’t hear her. She is pregnant. She laughs. He hears that; a soft and breathless sound that he is sure he has heard once before. His chest aches. Rio smiles down at her. He chokes and wakes up gasping anyway. 

He drags himself to the bathroom, cursing softly. A shower will soothe him, he’s sure. Scalding in the too-hot water, he stands and tries to work his breath around the lump in his throat. 

He does it that night for the first time; He finds his memories of her, the ones that aren’t part of that cursed Night. He lets his eyes drift shut on them. He holds those memories in his mind and lets them play. Allows himself to remember; dappled sunshine filtering through her bedroom blinds, the way she’d bitten her lip from insecurity when he had smiled at her mismatched socks, the feel of her shaky breath on his jaw just before she kissed him first, the strange rush of almost-joy he had pushed down when he’d grabbed her hips and pulled her in to kiss her back. 

He lets himself feel; the slight surprise he had felt at how bad he wanted to make her happy right before their lips crashed back together. Rio thinks about the softness of her pale skin as he had kissed and bitten his way up her thighs, the little gasping sound she had made when he laid his mouth on her clit, the way she had moaned as he had licked and teased and drawn out her pleasure, the sudden gasping sensation, like drowning, that he’d had when she had locked her thighs around his head and canted her hips into his face, how she had come undone with small quivers and a whimper of his name, how badly he had wanted to do it all again but she had pulled him up into her kisses. 

He calls up the memory of how impossibly blue her eyes had been as he had tangled his fingers in hers and pushed into her. He lingers over how her gaze had trapped him, held him as he moved above her; the small ‘o’ her mouth had formed as she had come again beneath him, clenching and fluttering around his cock; the way her eyes had finally drifted shut as she dragged him with her to his own shaky climax; fingers of his right hand twined in her left and his face buried in her neck; how she had gasped his name again and again and raked her nails over his scalp when he had bitten her shoulder and soothed it with his tongue. For this one night, he lets himself feel how he had felt then; like he’d been found and like he was lost all at once. Had he really just been hitting it? He tries hard not to imagine her blue eyes in a baby’s face and how beautiful he knows that baby would be. His chest hurts again and he swallows roughly.

He turns up the heat. The water is almost painfully hot. ‘That’s good,’ he thinks. Let some other part of him hurt for a change. But he can’t stop his mind from dragging up an image of her; heavy with his child and the thought flits through his mind that he is well and truly fucked. ‘Goddamn Elizabeth.’ He can’t help the sudden rush of heat between his legs that leaves him hard and aching. 

He does it that night for the first time; bracing his left hand against the tiles, he takes himself in his hand; slides his hand reluctantly up his shaft. He doesn’t want to do this. He can’t stop himself. He trails his fingers lightly up his cock…shivers…curses his traitorous body. His fingers glide up the shaft again, slip over the head of his cock. He bites off a hiss. His hand slides back down, squeezes as he goes. He thinks of her string of pearls locked in a small wooden box in his nightstand. He wants to give her one; a pearl necklace. Rio works himself, a soft groaning sound escaping his slightly parted lips as he remembers rocking inside of her; how hot and wet with need for him she had been; how soft and pliant and wanton in his arms she was. He groans again; works his hand faster, a small twisting motion to his hand. His grip tightens a little; he thrusts into his hand like he had thrust into her; shudders his release to the memory of her clinging to him as he had spilled himself inside of her, filling her up and sating her need and his…for a moment. 

He’s come too fast, too hard. He wishes he hadn’t yet. He thinks of doing it again. But he needs a minute to catch his breath even though he’s still half-hard. Plus he thinks he called out her name into the falling water but he doesn’t want to think too much about what that means. ‘It means nothing.’ For a minute, he stands passive, watches as the water swirls down the drain and suddenly he hates her again. Goddamn Elizabeth. He thinks maybe he hates himself too. Hates how it all turned out. 

So why does he want to drive across town, let himself in at the French doors of her bedroom, kiss her awake, pin her beneath him and fuck her until she cries out his name? Fuck her until her need for him chases off that petrified look he had put on her face earlier tonight? Why does he want to bury himself in her until he forgets; until they both forget? Why does a part of him ache to fall to his knees, bury his face in her still-flat belly and forgive her? Forgive her for it all and maybe she’d forgive him too? Why does he want to believe her when he almost knows that she's lying about being pregnant. Why does he- despite knowing he’ll never get it, never ask for it- why does he want absolution from her?

With a snarl, he shuts off the hot water and blasts himself with the cold. He stands shivering under it and forces himself to remember how cold and callous she had been when she kicked him out of her house, how she had put his cut on the bedside table like she was paying him for sex. A twist of revulsion, a pang of shame runs through him and his heart steels against her. 

Because at the end of it all, that’s what this all comes down to; at every turn, she had chosen something other than him. She had chosen to walk away from him; she had kicked him out and chosen what her husband wanted over Rio; she had chosen Turner and shot Rio instead; she had chosen to leave him dying and she had walked away and saved herself. When all was said and done, she would never choose him and he was an idiot not to have seen it sooner. Yeah. She had taken the measure of him and she had been deadly right. 

The cold water shuts off and he pads over to the bed, toweling himself off as he goes. It was time to choose himself now. He would have to be cold enough, hard enough for what was coming. A soft curse falls from his lips. “Maybe now I can finally fuckin’ sleep,” he chuckles hollowly into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> For MissTricey. Hope you enjoy it even though it is about Beth's fake pregnancy....for now. 
> 
> More soon, 😘


End file.
